Читать книгу Remember - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 12

Nicky was in and out of Tiananmen for the next few hours, as were most of the foreign press corps.

The areas surrounding the square were a mess. Soldiers were everywhere and the crowds had not diminished. In fact, it seemed to Nicky that they had increased. Overturned vehicles and abandoned bicycles littered Changan Avenue, and an even bigger number of fires were flaring as residents continued to torch tanks and armoured personnel carriers, their grief and anger unassuaged.

In the immediate vicinity of the Beijing Hotel the scenes were chaotic. The wounded, the dying, and the dead were piling up, and distraught and weeping Beijingers, many of them covered in blood, were desperately trying to move the victims. Their aim was to get them to the hospitals and morgues as quickly as possible, and they were valiant in their efforts. They were using all kinds of makeshift stretchers; Nicky even saw one made out of a door ripped from a telephone booth and tied to two long pieces of iron pipe. Several Number 38 buses had been pressed into service as ambulances, and so had pedicabs and carts. Most of the injured were being taken to Xiehe Hospital. It was fairly close to Changan, since it was located in one of the streets immediately behind the Beijing Hotel.

Conversely, the square appeared to be peaceful enough when Nicky went back there for the fourth time, at three forty-five on the morning of 4 June. Yet after only a few minutes in the square she felt the tension in the air. It was a most palpable thing, and underlying the tension was the smell of fear.

The troops had moved in, were positioned at the far end.

Near the Goddess of Democracy she saw lines of soldiers drawn up. They stood staring at the square, their faces cold, cruel, brutal, rifles in their hands, ready to charge on their own people when the order was given.

As soon as she reached Clee, hovering near the monument, he told her there were machine guns positioned on the roof of the Museum of Chinese History on the eastern side of the square.

‘They’re well prepared, aren’t they?’ she said, her tone sarcastic. Contempt settled on her face. And then she noticed that some of the students on the monument were busy writing, and she tugged Clee’s sleeve. ‘What are they doing?’ she asked, puzzled.

Clee sighed, shook his head. ‘Yoyo told me they’re writing their wills.’

‘Oh God.’ Nicky turned away, swallowing, and unexpectedly she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. Immediately, she took control of herself. The more emotional the situation and the story, the cooler she must be.

Try though she had to conceal her feelings, Clee had noticed her reaction, and he put an arm around her. ‘It’s a lousy world we live in, Nick, and you know that better than anybody.’

‘I do. Still, some things are really hard to take.’

‘I should say.’

She gave him a half-hearted smile. ‘You mentioned Yoyo. Where is he?’

‘Somewhere around. I gave him hell a short while ago, told him to split. Then I saw him talking to Arch.’

‘Where’s Arch?’

‘He went back to the hotel. To call New York, and have a pow-wow with Jimmy about your film segment.’

‘We must have missed each other on Changan. It’s a foul mess out there.’ Again she glanced at the students on the monument. They must know how dangerous it is now.’

‘That singer, Hou Dejian, and a couple of other leaders have been on the loudspeakers, asking the kids to leave in an orderly fashion, and -’ Clee stopped short as every light in Tiananmen went out.

‘I wonder what this means?’ Nicky peered at him in the gloom.

‘The worst, I suspect,’ he answered grimly. ‘The lights didn’t fail, they were turned off by the authorities.’

‘Bastards,’ Nicky muttered.

Within the space of only a few minutes the loudspeakers on the monument began to crackle. A disembodied voice said half a dozen words, and then the volume increased and music began to play.

‘It’s the “Internationale”!’ Clee exclaimed. ‘Christ, I wonder what the kids will do now?’

‘Leave. Hopefully,’ Nicky replied.

But as the words of the famous song rang out across the square, Nicky knew they would not do so. She could see, even in the dim light, that the students simply sat there listening to the record, motionless, unshakeable, proud in their resoluteness. The minute the record ended it was played again, and repeated several more times during the course of the next twenty minutes.

Nicky and Clee stayed together, conferring quietly from time to time, and talking to other journalists. Everyone expected the military attack to begin at any moment. Nicky and Clee steeled themselves for the confrontation between the students and the troops. But another half hour passed and nothing untoward occurred until, unexpectedly, an array of lights in front of the Great Hall of the People was turned on dramatically. They flooded that side of the square with the most powerful and brilliant illumination.

At the same time, the loudspeakers came alive once again, and several people spoke. Neither Nicky nor Clee could understand what was being said, but a British journalist standing next to them told them the gist of it. ‘The leaders were urging the students to quit the square. They’re all saying the same thing - get out before you’re killed.’

‘Ah, but will they? I doubt it,’ Clee said, swiftly answering his own question.

‘I agree with you,’ the British journalist murmured. Then he shrugged, wandered off.

Clee said, ‘Nicky, I gotta go. I want to get some shots of these guys on the loudspeakers, and of Chai Ling. This is one helluva moment.’

‘Go ahead, Clee. I must look for Yoyo and Mai. They have to be somewhere around here,’ she said as he hurried away.

Nicky spent the next ten minutes or so strolling in the area of the monument, her eyes scanning the crowds and the ledges hopefully. But there was no sign of Yoyo and Mai, and she began to wonder if they had finally heeded her earlier warnings and left the square. She fervently hoped that they had.

Someone else spoke to the students over the loudspeakers. There was a short silence, and then a second voice was heard echoing out, filling the warm air with words.

Nicky did not have the slightest idea what was being said, and she walked on, circling the monument one last time. Much to her surprise, a number of the kids were beginning to stand up. Slowly they climbed down off the ledges and walked away. She stood watching them go.

Many had tears streaming down their faces, and her heart went out to them. They had lost their peaceful fight for freedom and democracy. Military power had prevailed and many innocent people had been brutally slaughtered. But at least some lives will be saved now, she thought, and glanced around anxiously. Where the hell were Yoyo and Mai?

Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky with light, filling it with an eerie, incandescent glow. She peered at her watch. It was after five already, and she could not stay in the square much longer. Sighing under her breath, she left the monument and started to walk to Changan. It was time to return to the hotel to prepare her newscast and the film segment, shower, put on her makeup and change her clothes. Earlier, she and Arch had decided that she would do the filmed piece on the balcony of the hotel first, to be sent out by courier later that morning. At eight fifteen she would do her live phone narration for the seven o’clock nightly news.

Nicky had not walked very far when she suddenly remembered the small canvas travel bag Yoyo kept in his tent. He had once told her his most important possessions were in it. Was his passport in the bag? Had he gone back for it?

Making a swift decision, she spun around, dodged through the students who were now leaving, and sped towards the tent encampment. As she ran she saw to her dismay that an increasing number of soldiers were entering the square. It seemed to her that they were everywhere, and in the distance she heard the clatter and rumble of tanks and armoured personnel carriers moving forward across that vast rectangle of stone.

She paid no heed, but plunged ahead through the deserted encampment, shouting, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

One or two faces peered out of tents, and she cried, ‘Leave! Tanks are coming!’ Realizing that they did not understand English, she made wild and urgent gestures with her arms, and cried, ‘Go! Go!’, hoping they would somehow get the message. Then she ran on, making for the centre of the encampment, still calling at the top of her voice, ‘Yoyo! Mai!’

They saw each other at exactly the same moment.

Yoyo and Mai were rounding the side of one tent when Nicky came out from behind another, and was instantly in their direct line of vision.

They had both put on jackets, and Yoyo was carrying the small canvas bag.

‘I’ve been looking for you all over!’ Nicky cried.

‘Forgot bag,’ Yoyo explained, holding it up. ‘Bag important. Passport in it.’

I’ll say it’s important, Nicky thought, but said, ‘Come on. Troops are here. Everyone’s leaving.’ She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.

‘This way! It quicker!’ Yoyo exclaimed.

He took the lead. The three of them ran down a narrow opening between the rows of tents, and came out into an open area of the square, just to the north of the Martyrs’ Monument.

Lines of troops were rapidly advancing in their direction, and behind them came the APCs and tanks intent on destroying everything that stood in their path.

Nicky swung to her right, called, ‘Follow me!’ and ran the opposite way, aiming for the monument and the entrance to Changan just beyond it.

Her heart sank as she heard the sound of rifle fire behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, were close on her heels. And so she continued to race across the square, putting distance between herself and the encroaching army as fast as she could. The sound of the oncoming armoured vehicles and the blazing guns were ominous to her ears.

Drawing closer to the monument, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the last few students were retreating, trying to escape as they were.

‘Nicky! Nicky!’

Without slackening her pace she looked back. To her shock she saw that Mai was down. Yoyo was bending over her.

Nicky spun around and ran back to them. ‘What happened?’

Yoyo’s face was stricken. ‘Mai shot.’

Nicky dropped to her knees, examined the girl’s bleeding shoulder, touched her face gently. Mai opened her eyes, blinked, closed them. Nicky stood up, then, bending forward, she slipped her arms under Mai, trying to lift her. The girl moaned and, afraid to move her, Nicky swiftly laid her on the ground again.

Her hands felt wet and she looked down at them, saw they were covered with blood. Her heart tightened. Mai must have been shot in more than one place. She wiped her hands on her pants, straightened, and raised her eyes, looking straight ahead of her.

The tanks had increased their speed, were almost upon them. There was no time left. She said to Yoyo, ‘Quickly, take Mai’s legs, I’ll lift her under her arms. We’ll carry her behind the monument.’

These words were barely out of her mouth when she was bodily pulled away from Mai and pushed, almost flung, to one side. As she rolled over, she heard Clee shouting, ‘Move it, Nick! Move it, Yoyo! The tanks are closing in!’

People were scattering in panic around her, and screaming.

Struggling to her feet, she spotted Clee running out of the line of fire, carrying Mai in his arms. Yoyo was right behind him. Nicky half ran, half stumbled after them and they made it to safety just in time.

Tanks and APCs, their guns blazing, rolled over the spot where, a split second before, she and Yoyo had been crouching next to Mai. Several students had been less lucky. They lay dead or injured, crushed by the tanks. One boy had had his head smashed in, and there was a pool of his blood and brain on the stones.

With a convulsive shudder, Nicky averted her eyes, and went to take cover behind the Martyrs’ Monument, where Clee was placing Mai on the ground. This area seemed to be relatively safe, at least for the moment, and there were no troops in sight. She sank onto the steps and discovered she was shaking all over.

Clee came and sat on the steps with her, put his arms around her, held her.

She clung to him tightly. ‘That was a close call, Clee,’ she muttered. After a small pause, she said against his bloodstained jacket, ‘And you just saved my life. Thanks.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, stared at her without speaking.

Nicky stared back. He had the most peculiar expression on his face, one she had never seen there before. It puzzled her.

Finally, he said, ‘Let’s get Mai to a hospital.’ He took his camera off, hung it around Nicky’s neck. ‘Look after this for me,’ he said, bent down, and lifted Mai up into his arms.

Yoyo, who had been hovering over his girlfriend, let go of her hand, grabbed his canvas bag, and together he and Nicky followed Clee.

When they reached Tiananmen Gate, Nicky paused and turned to look back at the square.

The Goddess of Democracy was no more. It had been toppled by a tank and demolished - smashed to smithereens. The tent encampment had been flattened to the ground. She prayed that the few remaining students had managed to escape before this had happened.

And she felt an immense sadness flowing through her as she hurried after Yoyo and Clee.

Changan Avenue was congested with tanks and troops. The dead and the dying lay in pools of their own blood, and the anguished residents of the city were trying to do what they could to help those less fortunate than they.

Nicky and Yoyo walked ahead of Clee, pushing through the chaos and the crowds, clearing the way for him as he carried Mai.

They had almost reached the Beijing Hotel when Yoyo caught hold of Nicky’s arm. ‘Look!’ he cried excitedly, pointing. ‘Red Cross flag on Number 38 bus. Ambulance. Take Mai to Xiehe Hospital.’

Nicky turned around to Clee. ‘Let’s get her to that ambulance. The medics can take over.’

Clee merely nodded, ploughed forward with the injured girl. He hoped to God the doctors could save her.

Nicky stood in the middle of the ATN suite at the Beijing Hotel, concentrating hard, focusing on what she had to say. It was fifteen minutes past eight on Sunday morning in China. In New York it was thirteen hours earlier, exactly fifteen minutes past seven on Saturday night.

She held her cellular phone, talking into it clearly, steadily, and without pause, using what she termed her television speed. She was coming to the end of her hardhitting newscast about the events she had just witnessed in Tiananmen, and her final words were dramatic:

‘The late Mao Zedong once said political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. The People’s Liberation Army turned their guns on ordinary citizens and students today. Innocent people. Unarmed people. It was a massacre. And they did it at the command of ageing leaders desperate to hang onto their political power. Seemingly Mao Zedong spoke the truth. At least, as far as China is concerned.’ There was a small beat, before she finished, ‘This is Nicky Wells saying goodnight from Beijing.’

At the other end of the line she heard Mike Fowler, the ATN anchorman, saying, ‘Thank you, Nicky, for that extraordinary and tragic report from Beijing. And now to the news from Eastern Europe …’

Nicky clicked off the cellular, looked over at Arch who was sitting at the desk, the phone to his ear.

He smiled, nodded several times, held up a bunched fist, his thumb jerking to the ceiling, indicating that she had done a good job.

He was on the wire to the network, talking to the News Editor, Joe Speight, who was in the control room at ATN Headquarters in New York. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ Arch said, beaming. ‘We’ll ship the film out in an hour. You should have it tomorrow night. Okay. Ciao.’ He hung up, rose, walked across the floor to her. ‘Great, Nick! They loved it. You were just great!’

Jimmy said, ‘That’s one of the best pieces you’ve done from here … but the moving film we just shot is even better.’

‘I second that,’ Luke said, grinning at her.

‘Thanks, guys.’ She smiled at them. Their praise mattered, meant a lot to her. They always spoke the truth, did not hesitate to tell her when she had not been as good as she usually was.

There was a knock on the door and Luke went to open it. Clee walked in. He looked awful, drained, even haggard, and Nicky knew what he was going to say before he said it. She could tell from the empty expression in his dark eyes.

She stared at him.

‘Mai died,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘They just couldn’t save her. They tried. But she’d lost too much blood.’

‘That’s tragic,’ Jimmy said. ‘Poor kid.’

Luke sat down heavily on a chair without uttering a word; Arch looked bereft, and was also rendered silent by the sad news.

Nicky walked over to Clee, feeling a little unsteady on her legs. ‘I had a horrible feeling she wasn’t going to make it,’ she said, biting her lip. She paused, overcome by emotion, but swiftly regaining her equilibrium, she continued, ‘You look terrible, Clee. Come and sit down, let’s get you some coffee.’

Clee took a step closer to her. He lifted his hand and with his fingertips wiped away the tears on her cheeks, which she did not even know were there. ‘It’s all right to cry, you know,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How’s Yoyo?’

‘Devastated.’

She nodded. ‘I can imagine. Where is he?’

‘At Xiehe Hospital, making arrangements to take Mai’s body home to her parents. They live on the outskirts of Beijing.’

Suddenly all words failed her and she was unable to speak.

Clee put his arm around her and walked her over to the sofa. They both sat down, and he said, very quietly, ‘We journalists deal with war and death and tragedy on a daily basis, and because we’re tough we think we’re invincible. But none of us are, not really, Nicky. Not even you.’